dal segno al coda
by imperfectandchaotic
Summary: emotional tether is a strong word. - (or: episodic studies on Allison and Isaac/Lydia and Stiles because changing relationships are as powerful as anything)


**dal segno al coda**

**Notes: **can't even words. I'm too scared to guess what happens after so we'll have to wait until next week for any more _heavy rop_e but here have some episode feels.

* * *

_—__**d.s**__—_

Isaac feels constantly at odds. Pulled by polar forces, from his dad _before _and _then_

from _Derek, Boyd, Erica_ to _Scott, Stiles, and Allison_

from feelings that he doesn't have, that he's _not supposed to have_

to his wolf curling mourningful and tight like a constant ache in his chest, because pullling Allison out of her dad's cuffs means leaning close enough that the smell of her shampoo becomes dizzying.

She's gripping at his arms, fingers trembling finely like violin strings, and his instincts just grip her back, hold her steady, keep them both abreast because if Isaac is being honest, they're all only seconds from drowning.

"They're all going to die, aren't they?"

Isaac is a terrible liar, so he just gives into his wolf and pulls her in, tucking Allison's head beneath his chin and smoothing back her hair as her fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket.

He figures counting Allison's calming, steady pulse is a good way as any to measure the time. _twenty five, that's it.  
_  
Isaac's own heartbeat feels weirdly erratic – he isn't sure if he should blame Mr. Argent's werewolf stick, or the way that Allison's soft curves just fit against all his rough edges in a way that seems _familiar, _like _home,  
_but the latter is kind of more frightening than the former will ever be.

He gets to thirty before she leans her forehead into the hollow of this throat, and Isaac is distantly aware of his breath seizing silently in his chest. Her skin is cool and it feels like salvation.

"Ready?" he whispers, trailing brave fingers over the slope of her spine. She nods there (_skinonskin like the soft hush of sacred things) _once, and pulls away.

"Let's go."

Allison is having trouble looking at him, but Isaac can't quite bring himself to mind. He just grabs for her wrist and pulls her out.

_—__**coda**__—_

_It's not just someone to hold you under; it needs to be someone who can pull you back. Someone that has a strong connection to you, a kind of emotional tether._

"Are you sure? I mean, Scott and I both have to go under."

Guilt is gnawing at his chest. Isaac tries to rearrange his expression into something reassuring, because what they are about to do is _not fun at all_, but Scott's gaze is searing and Isaac's wolf is whimpering.

"It's okay," Scott says, soft and commanding – like an alpha, Isaac thinks distantly – and crosses over to where Deaton's eyes are too knowing for anyone to be comfortable.

"Allison," he murmers, trying not to look at the smooth curve of her bare shoulder as she sheds her jacket and her second shirt. When had her name become something unsafe in his mouth?

She turns and his fingers are brave again, finding purchse against the jutting edges of her collarbones. She is looking at him with those same dark, vulnerable eyes from that cursed bank vault, the one that makes Isaac's wolf whimper at him _make it better_.

"This..." He has to swallow. She smells like jasmine. "This doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean."

Allison's lips twitch like she's trying to smile, but failing. "I–I know." She blinks once, her impossible eyelashes brushing the swells of her cheeks like the beat of a raven's wings.

"I...I trust you. You can bring me back, Isaac."

Something feels like it's fracturing in him; he is bleeding darkness and light is pouring in. Isaac tightens his grip on her shoulders. ducking his head a little to catch her eye again, to be sure Allison hears him when he swears,

"I'll bring you back. You'll see your dad again."

She nods, her fingers curling around her silver bullet (and if he's being honest, Isaac is still somewhat wary of it). "I know."

When he pushes Allison under her chin tilts up; her eyes are dark and her face is pale and she looks at him – Isaac has never seen anyone more beautiful.

The ice stabs needles up his arms and Isaac feels the weight of his promise pressing down on his chest.

_Just bring her back. Everything else can wait._

Just bring her back.

_**—**_**_d.s—_**

__"I think I'm having a panic attack."

The fear that shoots up Lydia's spine is unlike anything she's ever felt. No Peter hallucination or dead body or attempted strangling is quite like the manic fear of Stiles, falling apart before her eyes.

She hauls him into the boys locker room because clearly the hall is a terrible place for him to black out from lack of oxygen – Lydia resolves right then and there to learn to be better under fire, because _family, __**really?**_

She grabs at his face to hold them both steady, because maybe if can focus on her, he can – _he needs to hold his breath – _but he's still gasping and his eyes are wild and Lydia can feel her own heart slamming hot inside her chest _damn it Lydia you're a genius get it together just do it–_

She'll claim instincts forever but a tiny, cowardly part of her will insist otherwise.

Lydia careens into the kiss, part drag of his startled eyes and part leap of her foolish, naive heart. She kisses him and prays _please please please,  
_while that same, scared sliver of her conscious whispers, like an exhaltation:

_finally._

When she's brave enough to look at him, Lydia almost wishes she hadn't; it's too much – _Stiles is too much_ – he is looking at her as though can't quite understand her –

as though she were his sanctuary or his atonement for all the horrible things he's done and seen and all of the choices that have lead them here, to this slanted square of sunlight on a dirty concrete floor.

Their voices tremble together between spirals of dust and Lydia is sure something has changed now, forever, between them.

"Morell..."

But then Stiles' eyes go sharp and urgency shutters his expression and there isn't time anymore to dwell on the quiet wantings of her silly teenage heart.

_—__**coda**__—_

__"Lydia, you go with Stiles."

Deaton's expression is too knowing – can he tell? Lydia wonders, can he tell that the air between her and Stiles is now charged with something different? Are they lingering closer together? Are they looking at each other too often?

But she's too busy trying to read Stiles' vaguely unsurprised gaze to come up with a sufficient answer. Her hands still sting from the bite of the ice; Lyda can only imagine what it will be like for her dearest friends to meet their death in its cold embrace.

_it needs to be someone who can pull you back. Someone that has a strong connection to you, a kind of emotional tether._

Lydia wants to be reassured by the fact that _technically, _they've already done this. A few hours ago, in fact. But Isaac is staring at the tubs of ice and water and herbs in a way that screams _**bad, bad, bad**_and she's staring to lose her confidence a litte.

Of course watching Stiles turn his father's badge over and over in his hand doesn't help much, either.

It feels too quick, because all of a sudden they're all lining up in pairs and Stiles is looking back at her, _open _and vulnerable, and Lydia is certain that the new strength of their friendship will never be so important again.

She nods at him, _I'll bring you back, I promise we'll find your dad, Stiles just come back to me–_

and his fingers go white around the sharp, glinting edges of Sheriff Stilinski's badge.

When she pushes him under in time with Isaac and Deaton, Lydia has to squeeze his shoulders tight to keep her hands from shaking.

* * *

**More Notes: **I am still screeching about that perfect kiss.

Annie


End file.
